Dogs Bite: Part 2

Their small group wove its way through the snarled, serpentine streets of the City of Dogs’ poorer quarter, which spilled from the banks of the Nepati River like a blood stain. The city thoroughfares, like the sewers beneath, formed a twisting labyrinth of filth and shadows. Corpulent piles of refuse and offal buzzed with flies among haphazard buildings. Architecture, material, and even height varied alongside each tangled path like faces in a crowd.

Once the bloody bar lay a dozen streets behind, they stopped in a narrow, deserted alley to take stock. Only then did they sense how off it all was. It was there. In neighbourhoods that were unusually quiet, whereas others were filled with conspicuous, uneasy crowds. Watch patrols moved in dozens rather than pairs, wary as hunters in a forest where predators are known to roam. Sorren couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone but him was in on some terrible secret.

It was like an invisible, distended membrane covered the city. It struggled to contain the potential violence and was expanding with every passing hour. With every act of brutality, every crime committed out of desperation, and every newly destitute home, the membrane stretched further. Its bursting was as inevitable and yet unpredictable as the snapping of an overborn tow line.

“Reckon you fellas feel that. Feels like something’s coming to a head, and when it does, we shouldn’t be here,” Sorren said to the other two as the sky darkened toward evening.

“Agreed.” Splint’s reply came as a grumble.

“I hope you are wrong, Jingle.” Hotep looked concerned, which wasn’t surprising. They were all worried. None of them knew what to expect, but danger shadowed each of them like the pregnant, grim clouds in the west.

“I think our best bet is gonna be over the bridge. We’ve got our tin…” Sorren tapped his licence. “And the invitation to the meeting. We take our chances with the bridge guard, we’re early but not that early.”

He had no intention of seeking out their potential client; instead, he planned to get to a gate and get out. They had more than enough silver to find them a bed in one of the road-houses a few hours’ walk from the city. Once things settled, they could always return or they might hire onto one of the inevitable caravans that would be fleeing the city if his assumptions were correct.

His stream of thoughts was stoppered as a scream peeled into the air some distance away, followed by the roar of a crowd.

Without a word, they looked at each other and hurried north to the bridge. Their narrow road was quiet. Too quiet. Sorren thought as he scanned the warped and ill-fitting structures, and more importantly, the darkling alleyways between them. It was almost devoid of life except for shadowy, furtive figures flitting from alley to doorway, and the ever-present stray mongrels that haunted the city.

More turbulent, nerve-grinding noise came crowding behind them. Clangs, bangs and shattering glass. Shrieking shouts and hateful howls. The bedlam pursued them unseen, chasing them up the long street. Every turn, twist, and corner felt like it might hold some violent surprise, and Sorren’s palms became slick with cold sweat.

They joined one of the cobbled thoroughfares that hugged the banks of the river. The smell of rotting rubbish and mouldering wood wafted up to greet them. This was one of two wide streets that crossed at a bridge. Sorren picked up the pace, the storm of sound growing fainter and yet more ominous with every step.

The bridge itself was a towering structure, cavernously arched to leave room for even the largest river boats to pass beneath. It was made of smooth, white sandstone, each block so precisely cut and fitted that its joins were almost imperceptible.

Sorren noted that dozens of blue-uniformed guardsmen waited at the bridge’s threshold, more than usual. Some milled about, talking. Others stood with hands on polearms, watching. Their commander, recognizable by the broad-brimmed blue hat he wore, was talking to a grey watchman whom he sent scuttling off into the merchants’ quarter.

“Halt there, you three,” called a sergeant standing on the line where the bridge met the cross street on this side of the river.

“We’ve an appointment up the hill, aminos. Jingle here has our invitation.” Hotep spoke first, as he often did. Free cities folk tended to look suspiciously upon outsiders, and whilst Hotep wasn’t from the City of Dogs, his accent at least picked him out as from one of Nepatino’s sister cities.

“Let’s see it then. Only one of you needs to approach.” The sergeant’s tone was amenable but not encouraging.

Sorren drew the small lacquered cylinder that contained their invitation from his surcoat and walked over. The bald mercenary was careful to make sure his tin licence was clearly visible. He approached the sergeant with confidence, but made sure to avoid any sudden movements.

The sergeant was the sort to pay attention, and with the tension in the city, Sorren didn’t want to give him any more reason to become wary of him.

The grizzled man took the proffered case without a word. Sorren felt his heart crawl into his throat as the man looked up at him with an inscrutable expression.

“Let me take this to the captain.” 

The sergeant paused for a spell, as if drawing up courage.

“How are things down there?” Concern, thinly veiled and earnest, filled the faint cracks in his voice.

He was of high enough rank that he probably didn’t live in the poor quarter anymore, but the place left its mark on his accent.

It was a safe bet he still had family in those twisted streets.

“Not good. Didn’t see much, but we could hear it. Reckon folks are just gettin’ started, if I’m honest.” Sorren didn’t have to feign his sober, sorrowful tone.

He met the man’s eyes, and saw worry there. The guardsman offered mute thanks. Then he turned and walked to his superior.

The cacophony that had chased them seemed very distant now, though still undeniably present. Sorren headed back to his companions.

“How do they seem, Jingle?” asked Hotep.

“Tense. Worried. By Saint Ragrisa, this is a pig-shit situation.” Sorren rubbed his chin. Hotep nodded and shot a glance at Splint. It went unspoken, but they all felt it. It was like they stood in the path of a midnight stampede; they knew it was coming but had no idea from where it would strike.

The old raider was staring intently down the road that ran through the city in line with the bridge, his brow even more deeply furrowed than normal.

“They’re coming.”

Sorren’s eyes weren’t what they used to be, but Splint wasn’t prone to exaggeration.

“Be ready lads,” Sorren said quietly.

He turned to look over his shoulder and saw the sergeant walking back to the line. Sorren went to meet him.

“Captain Bevrien says you may pass. Says to give the Daymos his regards.” The sergeant handed the cylinder back.

“Thank you, sergeant. I’ll pass ’em on. Good luck.” Sorren spoke the last more quietly, almost by reflex.

The sergeant’s eyes flicked to the road and then back to Sorren. A brief pause, and without a word, he returned to his position.

Sorren turned and waved the other two over. Once they were in a group, Sorren lead them past the first line of guards. He forced himself not to rush. But knowing and yet not knowing what approached behind them created a wave of fear that he felt carrying him onward.

“Hey! Oi! Shanco! What’s that?” The voice called out somewhere over his left shoulder as they reached the last line of guards.

For a moment Sorren convinced himself that it was a shout meant for someone other than his little group. But that didn’t stop his gut filling with that hot, sour, and all too-familiar feeling.

Sorren heard Splint growl something in his mother tongue. Turning around seemed to take a long time; the world had slowed to a crawl. First, Sorren saw Hotep frowning at two soldiers in front of him, weapons raised. Next he saw Splint facing two more bridge guards who approached from behind.

One of the uniformed men was pointing at Splint’s leg with his polearm. It took Sorren a moment to see what he was yelling about. A crimson splash up the back of the northman’s dark grey breeches. It wasn’t the most obvious stain, but apparently it was enough. The final thing he noticed as he turned was the guardsmen on the bridge line.

Each and every one of the idiots was looking at the mercenaries. Sorren saw it happening beyond them. He spotted a man skulking in a low crouch, a shock of blonde hair slicked across his scalp. Then he noticed more folk creeping out of the alleys and side streets. The oncoming horde swelled, with crude weapons gripped in clenched fists.

The aging mercenary was moving before he had completely grasped the danger.

A younger guardsman’s polearm wavered in front of Sorren. But the boy’s attention had been swallowed entirely by the growing chaos.

Sorren seized the shaft just below the wicked axe-spear head and tore it from the youth’s fingers. His mouth gaped in surprise and something like betrayal. With the speed of practiced violence, Sorren slammed the butt of the six-foot shaft into the kid’s jaw. He collapsed like a sail with its lines cut.

Just as the young man hit the bridge, Sorren heard a shout. He thought it was Hotep for a brief moment, but then half a hundred voices multiplied the furious call. Sorren brought the long weapon round as he turned to look.

Splint had somehow knocked one of the two guardsmen out cold and was tossing the other with both arms over the bridge’s side. Hotep, being the clever fellow that he was, had simply turned to stare at the bridge line. The two men who’d stepped to him were doing the same, the blonde mercenary seemingly forgotten.

The mob was a massive, writhing, gnashing animal. Many faces, feverish eyes, and screaming mouths. Its chaotic, undulating body bristled in flaming torches, slivers of sharp metal, and brutal clubs.

It was the sound that was most terrifying. The baying, barking, shrieking was entirely inhuman. It rushed the thin line of blue-clad men. The guards did their best to remember their training, thrusting and sweeping the heavy polearms. The mob was forced back momentarily before surging forth again. One of the men was caught off balance and dragged into the pulsating mass of human madness, his scream simply becoming a single note in the cacophony.

It numbed Sorren’s mind. He’d seen battle before, been enveloped by the chaos and terrified. He’d fought in half a dozen pitched engagements. But he’d never seen anything like this. It was like an entire neighbourhood had just merged into a single seething entity. They ebbed and flowed, individuals visible briefly—faces contorted into rictus grins or grim-set snarls—only to disappear back into the insanity after a heartbeat.

The guardsmen began piling toward the line to reinforce, the small group of mercenaries lost in the face of this torrent of brutality. Hotep shoved Sorren’s shoulder to get him moving, and the trio ran across the bridge into the hushed merchant’s quarter.

This part of the city was daylight to the poor quarter’s night. It was smaller, and built upward on the slope of a high hill, like a fine cravat tied above a soiled, old shirt. Each street was a well-maintained, paved road with enough room for wagons to pass one another, each building a clean, imperious structure that exuded purpose and industry.

“We should get up the hill, see what we can see,” Sorren said. He was hoping to look at the city gates themselves. At least he’d get a sense of the wider city.

The afternoon sun was covered by miserable grey clouds, causing the small group’s shadows to fade into little more than vague impressions. Their journey up the hill was uneventful, disconcertingly so. It seemed like everyone was acting on a warning Sorren and his friends never got. The streets were all but empty, houses locked up tight as if for a storm.

They reached the hill’s apex, where the rich green of a public park spread across its crown. From there, they could see over the nearby buildings and out to the skyline of the city.

“Allmother preserve.” Splint was not a pious man. It spoke to his shock that he’d invoke the name of that ancient god. Usually the closest he came to religion was a muttered prayer to the Raid God of the Red Counties before a fight. Even that was only charitably described as inconsistent.

From their perch, Sorren could see twisting coils of smoke rising from all across the city. The thick black columns stood like hooded snakes, shifting and rocking languidly with the chill wind. The faint glow of orange firelight stained the stonework at their origins and gave the whole, sprawling mess of the city an infernal edge.

“Fires. Dozens of ‘em.” Sorren was so stunned by what he saw, he could only sputter the obvious.

“It’s all over,” Hotep agreed. His normally jovial tone was lost in dread. He leaned against the trunk of a great ash tree, darkened by the great shadows.

The three of them spent a moment in silence, gazing at the soul-crushing sight, before Sorren remembered his purpose. He looked to the east, out toward the Marcher’s Gate. It was the largest of the city’s eight gates and was traditionally the one from where the red-uniformed soldiers of the Grand General’s army marched.

It appeared to be closed. He could only see the very top over the jagged roof-scape, so it was hard to tell for sure.

“There. I reckon that’s our best bet. If the gate’s open, it can let the most out. If it’s shut, at least the area nearby is more’n likely to be defended. Hopefully, that means it’ll be safe.” He said this with a confidence he didn’t feel, as was his habit. He wondered, not for the first time, why the other two had decided he was in charge.

Not that they’d ever said as much. But they listened to him. Trusted him. 

I just hope I’m not about to get ‘em killed, he thought as he fought down the uncertainty and doubt that rushed to fill his chest.

“Okay, aminos. Let’s go then. What is it that Splint here is always saying?” Hotep smiled, and with it the shadow of the tree seemed to brighten. He looked over at the old raider.

“Wait long enough, and you always find a grave,” Splint answered, nodding his head and breaking off the glare he’d been giving the city around them. He pointed to a spot not far off, where the bridge lay.

Sorren squinted and followed the old raider’s scarred finger. One of the streets they had crossed was visible. Within its confines, the thronging, boiling mob shifted violently. The riot was across the bridge now, and would soon be coming up the hill. Whilst the details were blurred by Sorren’s dull eyes, his imagination filled in the gaps well enough. Looting, murder and rape. It was like the city was sacking itself. 

The park was so serene, Sorren almost laughed. The city was in full revolt, its people killing their neighbours and burning their homes. Yet birds twittered happily in the trees as if nothing was amiss.

They jogged onto a street that ran alongside the park, with large manors lining the opposite side. Each was opulent and majestic, with long front gardens and wrought iron fences. Beyond those, house guards and mercenaries were visible. They peeked over decorative crenelations or through expensive glass-paned windows.

Sorren was unsure if he envied them. Having some thick stone walls between him and the madness would be a comfort. But then again, being stuck with nowhere to run when that mob came howling? That felt like a trap. Sorren was certain the looters would make their way here. This was where the wealth was.

The trio moved north up the street and away from the bridge. The further from the violence they could get, the better.

The homes passed in a pretty blur, the carefully cultivated front gardens and perfectly pristine fountains whipping by as they loped up the long, imperious road.

Eventually, they turned from that road, heading east and downhill. Still, things were quiet. Faint sounds, as indistinct as they were terrible, rode the breeze with the scent of acrid smoke.

They came to an intersection and Sorren lifted a hand to slow their pace. He intended to look both ways before crossing. The uneasy approach was interrupted when a woman in a torn purple dress hurried past.

Her eyes were fixed ahead of her, and she gave Sorren’s group no notice. But as she passed, he heard pounding feet following her.

Sorren wasn’t a hero. He’d wanted to be when he’d first been conscripted, and liked to think he’d done the right thing more often than not. While he hadn’t chosen to join the imperial army, it had initially felt like a relief. A relief from the tedious, difficult, and unrewarding work as a fisherman that he’d been destined for.

Any dream of heroics had died the first time he’d been on ‘foraging’ duty. During a campaign into the Buckle—the lands that bridged the centre of The Belt of The World—they’d come upon a village with whitewashed houses and broad green pastures.

They’d left it spattered red and charred black. After what he’d seen and done there, heroism had seemed a foreign idea. Since then, he’d only wanted to avoid being part of that kind of callous cruelty.

He turned without a word; he and his companions each looked for a place to hide. They found nothing, which seemed inevitable. Perhaps the mob would be too busy chasing that woman to take an interest in his lot. He hoped, but the hope was thin and fragile. 

After all, the bloody footprints on the cobbles would be easy to follow.

Sorren stepped to the corner of the building that abutted the intersection and drew his falchion. His companions stacked behind him. It was done wordlessly, and that made Sorren feel a touch more confident.

The sound of pounding feet grew louder, and voices joined it. Sorren didn’t listen to what they said; instead he focused on the feet and gauged his timing.

The first man, ragged and skinny, came into view. Sorren charged. The thin man’s sunken face went slack with surprise when he saw Sorren barrelling toward him. His face twisted into a pained grimace when the falchion slashed through his stomach.

Sorren had smashed into the first of seven men. To his right the pack of the looters slid to a halt, their shock forcing them to hesitate. They were not soldiers, and they were not disciplined. They were just angry people, armed with bloodlust and whatever had come to hand.

Before they got their wits about them, Hotep leapt and kicked a stout fellow with enormous sideburns to the ground. He followed this with a wicked slash that opened the chest of a fat, tattooed dock worker.

The other looters were just beginning to get their footing when Splint hit them. He was like a storm. Like a battering ram striking a flimsy door. He came in low, grabbing a fellow’s legs and tossing him upward. 

The now airborne man wasn’t as skinny as Sorren’s first opponent, but he may as well have been a child compared to the northman. He flipped over Splint’s shoulder, and his head met stone with a wet crack. Splint was still moving, axe swinging low to high. Its heavy head bit into a young man who was holding an improvised spear, just below the ribs. Blood sprayed as the surprised hooligan stumbled from the force.

Sorren saw all of this while he bobbed and weaved toward a pallid-skinned, toothless old goat. The fear on the man’s face would have given some people pause. But Sorren had learned a long time ago that the scared are just as capable of stabbing you as any hero.

The man swung wildly with a rusty dagger. It wheezed through the air over Sorren’s head as he ducked under and around it. The reply was meant to force the old man to guard, but the keen steel of the falchion sliced into the toothless face without resistance, spraying foamy blood across the light grey stone of the street.

Sorren was as surprised as the old man. He found himself stumbling as he tried to readjust, and felt a wave of nausea when he noticed that the sickly fellow’s severed tongue lay glistening on the paving before him.

There was someone fleeing. A boy. He was thin and lanky, bare feet slapping at the ground as he ran. Sorren didn’t give chase. The boy’s life was a gift he could give him, an opportunity to go home.

Just go back to your family, boy. Find somewhere to hide un— Sorren gasped in shock, killing the thought.

The heavy axe whirled and smashed into the lad’s skull. Splint’s weapon sent the boy sprawling, and was left standing as mute testament to the old raider’s prowess. It was a wicked throw, but it made Sorren’s mouth fill with saliva and his throat constrict.

He turned slowly. More bodies, more blood, and more steaming guts marred the pristine street around him. The smashed and twisted corpses looked even more pathetic than they had in life. They had been little more than beggars and now they were carrion for the strays to pick at.

Sorren felt the familiar hollow feeling in his chest, and he squeezed hard at the falchion’s grip, hoping in vain it would stop his hand from shaking.

Splint lumbered towards the boy’s corpse to retrieve his axe. Hotep was looking up the road from where the looters had come, watching for stragglers.

Sorren’s legs felt so weak he wanted to collapse. Instead, he stumbled a step, bent double, and put his hands on his knees. So bloody pointless. Had he saved that woman? Had he meant to? Did it matter?

She was just as likely to be found by the next group of rioters as she was to survive. Her life had become a coin toss. A poor wager.

Sorren stood up tall again and dragged his mind from those dark waters. He was responsible for his friends, and they had to get moving.

Just as he was taking his first step, something cold seeped into his back. The cold twisted and then burst into a white-hot coil of pain. He whirled as he staggered away from the source.

The pain followed him, but where he had stood a grotesque figure teetered. The loose sackcloth shirt it wore was dyed crimson with gore. Where its nose and mouth should have been was little more than a bloody ruin, the eyes above it glassy and terrible.

It slumped forward, and thumped onto unforgiving stone. One leg kicked and then it died with a squelching gasp.

What the fuck? Sorren’s mind reeled, his thought only just barely registering above the jagged pain in his back.

It was that old goat. He’d stabbed Sorren in the back despite having his face practically chopped off. A single, final thrust with a rusty knife. The worst inversion the of the heroic dying blow. Sorren couldn’t believe it. But the icy fire crackling in the wound, and the warm, wet trickling down his spine, thrust reality upon him.

Hotep was already beside him and Splint rushed over to viciously stomp on the dead man’s skull. The sight was too much, and Sorren vomited, hot, sour disgust rising up his throat with alarming velocity.

“Steady, Jingle. Steady now,” Hotep said as he stepped behind Sorren and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Oh great, bloody, bastards that hurts. Gah!” Sorren yelled.

“Don’t worry, the blade is still in there, holding back the blood. I do not think it has hit anything important.” Hotep spoke calmly. Sorren could hear the infuriating, yet reassuring smile in the man’s voice. 

“Except my bloody back you mean!” he growled, as the Free Cities man ducked under his arm, lifted, and took his weight.

“Like I said, Jingle, nothing important.”

“Splint, be a good fellow and open that door.” Sorren croaked, as Hotep carried him toward a nearby shopfront. 

Splint obliged, kicking the solid-looking entrance hard enough to tear the lock free.

Once inside, Splint and Hotep got his surcoat off and eased him into a chair. He sat backwards like Nerves had, back in the inn. 

“Okay, this is fine, aminos. It went in by the side of the spine—not deep enough to touch your lungs, and I think it missed any major arteries. Stitches and bandages will be enough.”

Hotep’s fingers prodded at the borders of Sorren’s injury. Firm, but not callous.

Splint stood, leaned over Sorren’s shoulder, and looked at the wound.

“Five crows says you’ll need five stitches,” Splint rumbled, his face impassive as a cracked rock.

“Done. It’ll need no more than three,” Hotep replied. His audible smile was less reassuring this time, and a deal more infuriating.

“Can you two not gamble on the outcomes of my BLOODY WOUND CARE!” Sorren snapped with a wince, having just spat the leather from his mouth.

“Of course, Jingle. We were only joking,” Hotep replied as he started with the needle and gut.